So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. Last time— you made me feel snubbed. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. There is no further hope.
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